The Return of Rafe MacKade, Page 8

  course, you’re completely without.” Then she turned, and smiled. “But I think, under the circumstances, a truce is in order. Who broke your nose before?”

  “Jared, when we were kids and fighting in the hayloft. He got lucky.”

  “Hmm…” She supposed she would never understand why brotherly affection meant bloody noses to the MacKades. “So this is where you’re camping out.” She gestured toward the sleeping bag tossed in front of the fire.

  “It’s the warmest room in the house right now. And the cleanest. What circumstances equal a truce?”

  “Don’t set that bottle down without a coaster.” Heaving a sigh, she walked over, took one from the silver-plated basket and offered it. “You can’t treat antiques like…”

  “Furniture?” he finished, but he used the coaster. “What circumstances, Regan?”

  “Our ongoing business relationship, for one.” Because her fingers were tense again, she busied them by unbuttoning her coat as she walked back to the window. “We’re both trying to accomplish the same thing with this house, so it doesn’t make sense to be at odds. These are nice, aren’t they?” She took the fire irons from the box, stroked a finger over the curved handle of the coal shovel. “They could use some polish.”

  “It ought to work better than the crowbar I’ve been using.” Tucking his thumbs in his pockets, he watched her carry the irons to the fire, set them carefully and individually in their stand on the stone hearth.

  “Whatever you used, it’s a nice fire.” Torn between courage and doubt, she stared at the flames. “I’m still looking for the right screen. This one doesn’t really suit. It would be better in one of the rooms upstairs. I imagine you’ll have them all working. The fireplaces.”

  “Eventually.”

  He’d only known her for a few weeks, he realized. How could he be so sure she was arguing with herself? With the firelight flickering over her, her back so straight, that sweep of hair curtaining half her face, she looked relaxed, confident, perfectly at ease. Maybe it was the way she had her fingers linked together, or the way she wasn’t looking at him. But he was certain some small inner war was being waged.

  “Why are you here, Regan?”

  “I told you.” Dragging her fingers apart, she went back to the box. “I have some other stuff from the auction in my car, but you’re not ready for it. But these…” With care, she unwrapped heavy crystal candlesticks. “I could see them in here, right on this table. You’ll want flowers for this vase. Even in the winter.”

  She fussed with the arrangement, placing the candlesticks just so on one side of the Doulton vase she’d already sold him.

  “Tulips would be lovely, when you can get them,” she continued, carefully unwrapping the two white tapers she’d brought along. “But mums would do, and roses, of course.” She put a smile on her face again and turned. “There, what do you think?”

  Saying nothing, he took a box of wooden matches from the mantel and walked over to light the tapers. And watched her over the delicate twin flames. “They work.”

  “I meant the whole effect, the room.” It was a good excuse to move away from him, wandering the space, running a finger along the curved back of the settee.

  “It’s perfect. I didn’t expect any less from you.”

  “I’m not perfect.” The words burst out of her, unexpected on both sides. “You make me nervous when you say so. I was always expected to be perfect, and I’m just not. I’m not carefully arranged, like this room, with every piece in place, no matter how much I want to be. I’m a mess.” She dragged nervous fingers through her hair. “And I wasn’t, before. I wasn’t. No, stay over there.” She backed up quickly when he stepped forward. “Just stay over there.”

  Frustrated, she waved her hands to ward him off, then paced. “You scared me this morning. You made me angry, but more, you scared me.”

  It wasn’t easy for Rafe to keep his hands to himself. “How?”

  “Because no one’s ever wanted me the way you do. I know you do.” She stopped, rubbing her hands over her arms. “You look at me as though you already know how it’s going to be with us. And I have no control over it.”

  “I figured I was giving you control, laying it out for you.”

  “No. No,” she repeated, flinging up her arms. “I don’t have any control over the way I’m feeling. You have to know that. You know exactly the way you affect people.”

  “We’re not talking about people.”

  “You know exactly the way you affect me.” She almost shouted it before she fisted her hands and fought for composure. “You know I want you. Why wouldn’t I? It’s just as you said, we’re adults who know what we want. And the more I backpedal, the more stupid I feel.”

  His eyes were shadowed in the shifting light. “You’re going to stand there and say these things to me and expect me to do nothing about it?”

  “I expect to be able to make a sane and rational decision. I don’t expect my glands to overwhelm my brain.” She blew out a breath. “Then I look at you and I want to rip your clothes off.”

  He had to laugh. It was the safest way to defuse the bomb ticking inside of him. “Don’t expect me to stop you.” When he stepped forward, she jumped back like a spring. “Just the beer,” he muttered, lifting the bottle. “I need it.” He took a long, deep gulp, but it didn’t do much to put out the fire. “So, what have we got here, Regan? Two unattached, healthy adults who want pretty much the same thing from each other.”

  “Who barely know each other,” she added. “Who’ve barely scratched the surface of any sort of relationship. Who should have more sense than to jump into sex as if it was a swimming pool.”

  “I never bother testing the water.”

  “I do. An inch at a time.” Ordering herself to be calm, she linked her hands again. “It’s important to me to know exactly what I’m getting into, exactly where I’m going.”

  “No detours?”

  “No. When I plan something, I stick to it. That works for me.” She was calmer now, she told herself. Rational now. “I had a lot of time to think, driving to Pennsylvania and back. We need to slow down, take a look at the whole picture.”

  If she was calm, why couldn’t she stop fiddling with her blazer, twisting her rings?

  “It’s like this house,” she continued quickly. “You’ve finished one room, and it’s beautiful, it’s wonderful. But you didn’t start this project without a complete plan in mind for the rest of it. I think intimacy should certainly be as carefully thought out as the renovation of a house.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Good.” She drew in a breath, released it. “So, we’ll take a few steps back, get a clearer view of things.” Her hand was still unsteady when she reached for her coat. “That’s the sensible, the responsible route to take.”

  “Yeah.” He set down his beer. “Regan?”

  She gripped her coat like a lifeline. “Yes.”

  “Stay.”

  Her fingers went numb. Her breath came out in a long, shuddering sigh. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  With a jittery laugh, she threw herself into his arms.

  Chapter 6

  “This is crazy.” Already breathless, she curled her fingers into his hair to drag his mouth to hers. Everything in her strained into the kiss, the heat of it, the danger, the promise. “I wasn’t going to do this.”

  “That’s okay.” He dragged his lips from hers to race over her face. “I’ll do it.”

  “I’d thought it all through.” When her knees trembled, she gave a quick, helpless laugh. “I had. Everything I just said made perfect sense. This is just chemistry. It’s just superficial attraction.”

  “Yeah.” In one fluid movement, he yanked her blazer down her shoulders, locking her arms, trapping her body to his. Her gasp of alarm stirred his blood. The huge, wary eyes tightened his loins. “Stop thinking.”

  A smile curved his lips as he tugged the bunched material, pressing her against him. He
watched her eyes glaze, heard the ragged moan when his mouth fed on hers. Then his lips rushed down over the line of her throat. It was as smooth, as scented, as he’d imagined it. So he feasted.

  Her hands clutched at his hips, her head falling back to offer him whatever he chose to take. All the while the heat coursed through her painfully, forcing her breath out in harsh, ragged moans.

  With a jerk, he freed her arms. Before she could reach out, his hands, his wide, clever hands, streaked under her sweater to mold, to possess.

  Flesh and lace, curves and shudders. He found everything he wanted, and wanted more. His mouth continued its relentless assault, while his fingers tortured her skin, and her skin tortured him.

  With a flick of his wrist, he unsnapped her trousers, then skimmed the tips of his fingers along her quivering belly, under the edge of more lace. She moved against him, pressed urgently against him, her teeth scraping along his neck in greedy bites.

  He could take her now, fast and hot, where they stood. The speed would release this terrible pressure that burned inside him.

  But he wanted more.

  He dragged the sweater over her head, tossed it aside and filled his palms with her breasts. The lace covering was smooth, delicate, and the flesh beneath already flushed and warm with desire. Ruthlessly controlling the pounding need to rush, Rafe watched her face, the flicker of light and shadow over it, while he rubbed his work-roughened thumbs over the points of her breasts.

  “I’ve imagined you like this.”

  “I know.”

  His lips curved again, and his eyes were focused keenly on hers when he nudged a slim strap down her shoulder. “I don’t think you’ve imagined what I’ve thought of doing to you. I don’t think you could. So I’m going to show you.”

  His eyes stayed on hers, watching, measuring, as he skimmed a finger along the valley between her breasts, up over the curve, then back to flick open the center clasp.

  So he saw that lovely sky blue gaze darken with the storm he set off inside her. And he felt it quake, in both of them.

  Her breath caught in her throat when he jerked her off her feet and set his hungry mouth to work. Shocked, she arched back, her hands fumbling in his hair, over his shoulders, tugging desperately at his shirt. His teeth nipped into her, just short of savage, just short of pain. His tongue tormented, and aroused needs too violent to bear.

  Wild, frantic, she clawed at him. Even as she felt herself falling, she tore and ripped at his shirt. She was on her back, on the thin cushion of the sleeping bag, and bucking desperately beneath him.

  Finally she tugged his shirt away, cursing when she found yet another layer separating them. She wanted flesh, craved it with a mindless hunger. The moment he’d dragged the thin undershirt aside, she sank her teeth into his shoulder.

  “Touch me.” Her words were raw and urgent. “I want your hands on me.”

  They were, everywhere at once. Her world became primitive, dangerously exciting, pumped full to bursting with unspeakable sensations. Each rough, impatient caress sent fresh shocks erupting, until her body was nothing but sweaty flesh over sparking nerves.

  Beside her, the fire shot hissing embers against the screen. Inside her, flames leapt and burned.

  She could see him through the haze that blurred her vision. The dark hair, the fierce eyes, the muscles that glistened with sweat in the dance of light. Her moan of protest when his mouth left hers turned to one of giddy pleasure as his lips streaked down over throat, over breasts and torso.

  He levered back and, blind with need, she reared up, her arms circling possessively, her lips searching for each new taste.

  His oath was brief and vicious. “Boots,” he managed, fighting to pry hers off while his blood screamed. She was draped around him, that wonderful body sliding over his, her hands… Those incredible elegant hands.

  Boots thudded where he heaved them aside, then, quick as a snake, turned to take her.

  She was tangled around him, all long, silky limbs. He wanted her naked and writhing beneath him. He wanted to hear her scream his name and watch the jolts and shocks of pleasure glaze her eyes. Breath ragged, he dragged the slacks down her hips. In one reckless swipe, he tore the lace to shreds. Even as her gasp echoed off the walls, he shoved her back. And used his mouth.

  The climax slammed into her, a bare-knuckled punch that knocked her senseless. Reeling from it, she sobbed out his name. And, shuddering, shuddering, hungered for more.

  He gave her more. And took more. Each time she thought he would end it, must end it, he found some new way to batter her senses. There was only him, the taste, the feel, the smell of him. They rolled over the floor in a wild, glorious combat, her nails digging ruthlessly into his back, his mouth searing hers.

  Nearly blinded by need, he gripped her hands, fingers vised. He thought his own breathing must tear his lungs apart. Her face was all he could see as he drove himself into her. Twin groans mixed. A log shattered thunderously in the grate.

  They trembled, watching each other as they savored that timeless instant of mating.

  Muscles straining, he lowered his head, covered her mouth. When the kiss was at its deepest, when her flavor filled him as intimately as he was filling her, they began to move together.

  It was the cold that finally roused Regan. Though it seemed impossible, she thought she must have fallen asleep. As she struggled to orient herself, she discovered her back was against the cold, hard wood of the floor, pressed firmly against it by the weight of Rafe’s body.

  She looked around dazedly. Somehow or other, they’d gotten themselves several feet from the fire.

  “You awake now?” Rafe’s voice was thick, a little sleepy.

  “I guess.” She tried a deep breath, was relieved to find she could accomplish it. “I can’t really tell.”

  He shifted his head, skimmed his lips over the curve of her breast. Her exhausted body quivered in response.

  “I guess I can tell after all,” she said.

  “You’re cold.” He shifted, hauled her up and put her back on the sleeping bag. Wished, for her, that it was a feather bed. “Better?”

  “Yeah.” Not quite sure of her moves, she tugged a corner of the bag up to her chin. She’d never been so exposed, so completely naked, body and soul, before anyone. “I must have dozed off.”

  “Just a couple minutes.” He grinned at her. He felt as though he’d climbed a mountain. And could climb ten more. “I’ll put another log on.”

  Naked and easy, he rose to go to the woodbox. The scratches scoring his shoulders had Regan’s mouth falling open. She’d done that. She’d actually… Good God. “I, ah, should go. Cassie’ll be worried.”

  Rafe set the screen back in place. Without a word, he reached into the duffel bag beside the woodbox and took out a cell phone. “Call her.”

  “I…didn’t realize you had a phone.”

  “It’s a tool on a job like this.” He handed it to her, then sat down beside her. “Call her,” he repeated. “And stay.”

  She was sure there were reasons why she should go. But she dialed her own number, watching Rafe as the phone rang.

  “Cassie, it’s Regan. Yes, everything’s fine. Snow?” Baffled for a moment, she pushed her hair away from her face. “Oh, yes, it’s really coming down. That’s why I’m calling. I got, um, involved, and I think…”

  She trailed off as Rafe tugged the corner of the bag out of her hand, as his fingers trailed down the curve of her breast.

  “What?” She swallowed, then bit back a moan. His mouth had replaced his fingers. She slid bonelessly to her back. “Pennsylvania?” she murmured. “No, I’m not in Pennsylvania.”

  Rafe took the phone from her limp fingers. “She’s with me. She’s staying with me. No kidding? She’ll call you tomorrow. Right.”

  He clicked the phone off, set it aside. “Cassie says we’ve got over a foot out there, the streets are a mess, and you should stay put.”

  “Oh.” She closed her eyes,
lifted her arms. “That’s very sensible.”

  The candles had guttered out and the fire had burned to embers when she awoke. The house was so still, so quiet, she could hear her own heartbeat. The room was filled with shadows and darkness, but it was oddly peaceful. Perhaps the ghosts slept, she mused. Or perhaps she felt at ease with them because Rafe slept beside her.

  She turned her head and studied his face in the dying firelight. Asleep or not, she mused, there was no innocent-little-boy look about him. All that power, and the potential for violence, were still there, carved into his face.

  She knew he could be gentle, caring. She’d seen that in the way he was with Cassie. But as a lover, he was demanding, relentless and rough.

  And, for the first time in her life, she’d been the same.

  Now, with the quiet like a blanket over her, she found it hard to believe she had done what she’d done, had allowed him—wanted him—to do what he had done.

  Her body ached from bruises, and she wondered if in the full light of day she would wince at the memory of how she’d come by them. Of how she’d ached and trembled and hungered under those big, hard hands.

  Even more, of how she’d used her own.

  Of how, she realized with a jolt, she wanted to use them now.

  Taking a shallow breath, she eased out from under Rafe’s possessive arm. She moved as quietly as she could, settled on slipping on his flannel shirt for covering. Buttoning it as she went, she padded toward the kitchen.

  A cold drink of water, she told herself. A few moments to evaluate the situation.

  At the sink, she filled a glass. As her eyes adjusted, she watched the drift of snow falling outside the window.

  She didn’t regret. That, she mused, would be foolish. Fate had placed an extraordinary lover in her path. The kind of man few women ever knew. She could, and would, be content with the physical thrill of it. She could, and would, prevent it, and him, from complicating her life.

  They were both adults, as he had said. They both knew what they wanted. When the house was finished, he would probably grow restless and move on. Meanwhile they would enjoy each other. And when it was over, it would end with mutual understanding, and, she hoped, affection.

  It would probably be wise to discuss those expectations, or the lack of them, before things went any further. But she found herself torn at the very idea of voicing them.

  From the doorway, Rafe studied her, the way she stood, leaning a little on the counter, her eyes on the window. Her face reflected in it. His shirt skimmed her thighs, worn flannel against creamy skin.

  It struck him, hard, that he’d never in his life seen anything more beautiful. He had the words to tell her; he was good with them. But he found there were none this time, none good enough to show how much she mattered.

  So he chose easy ones, casual ones, and ignored the ache just looking at her had spreading around his heart.

  “I like your dress, darling.”

  She jolted, nearly bobbled the glass before she turned. He’d tugged on jeans, but hadn’t bothered to fasten them. Grinning, he leaned against the unframed doorway.

  “It was handy,” she said, matching his tone.

  “That old shirt’s never had it so good. Restless?”

  “I was thirsty.” But she set the glass down without taking so much as a sip. “I guess the quiet woke me. It’s odd, don’t you think, how quiet it is?”

  “The snow always makes it quiet.”

  “No, I mean the house. It seems different. Settled.”

  “Even dead soldiers and unhappy women have to sleep sometime.” He crossed the room to pick up the glass and drink himself. “It’s almost dawn,” he murmured. “My brothers and I spent the night here once when we were kids. I guess I told you that already.”

  “Jared rattling chains. And all of you telling ghost stories and smoking stolen cigarettes.”

  “You got it. I came into this room then, too. It was just about this time of day, but it was late summer. Everything was so green, and the woods were so dense and thick they made you wonder what was in them. There was a mist over the ground like a river. It was beautiful, and I thought—” He broke off, shrugged.

  “No.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Tell me.”

  “I thought I could hear the drums, slowly, the sounds of camps breaking to prepare for battle. I could smell the fear, the excitement, the dread. I thought I could hear the house waking around me, the whispers and creaks. I was petrified, paralyzed. If I could have moved, I’d have hauled my butt out of here.